Vicarious Rocky

Well, hosting is not really my strong suit, but I am right now congratulating myself shamelessly for a damn fine brunch. Everyone had the mimosas and coffee (I was a bit afraid I'd be the lone drunk), and we chilled for 30 minutes before we ate. The kids were all sweet and sharing and thanking each other for stuffed toy sharing and other crazy poster-child nonsense. We ate inside for about an hour and a half with great conversation. All the food came out perfect, everyone ate it up, had seconds, and then I had just small amounts of everything left so I know I made enough. To top it off we sat outside for over an hour in the gorgeous weather until their kid (that's right, NOT mine) melted down and went home for a nap.

I would label the afternoon as having successfully channeled Martha Stewart's slow half sister. Tah-Dah!

I heard the creator of the Cathy cartoon once say in an interview that it doesn’t matter what size you are -- if you buy a bikini, you still look like a marshmallow in a turnicate. Smaller marshmallow = smaller turnicate. Ah, so true.

I invested in a bikini yesterday at Target (and no kidding there it’s a frickin' investment now that manufacturers have learned to charge for bottom and tops separately!). It would be Smokin’ Hot on Kirsten Dunst. It’s cute and tolerable on me. I plan to go to the pool on my vacation at 8am, before having eaten anything and just after a huge dump. Then I can lie around and pretend to be hot. I have to be laying down in this fantasy, so that the cellulite is against the lounge chair and my arms are stretched above my head.

My 2 year old has seen this video so many times now that he says with the announcer, “America, it’s finally happening! Rap Cat!”

He is also so obsessed that he figured out what button to push on the computer to restart the video over and over and over . . .

Maybe if I shine a light on this new issue by mentioning it here, it will scamper away and leave me be. This week I’m having some wrist pain. Up until now the RA/Whatever thing has been all about the knees and ankles. That’s how I like it – nowhere near my typing “tools.” Me without typing would be . . . Yak, using Vista’s voice recognition software. In other words -- in hell.

But anyway, it’s mostly just some dull aching, nothing to freak about, but I don’t like that it’s crept up here above the waist. Scamper off now little roach. I’m busy typing.

Fact #1: My son loves Chuck E. Cheese. We went there last weekend and he lost his mind -- sheer bliss.

Fact #2: My husband’s semi-estranged father is a devout born-again Christian. Therefore, he buys his grandson gifts like “My Bible Songs” for Piano.

Fact #3: We’ve taken to having “Kum-Ba-Yah” and “Jesus Loves Me” sing-a-longs after dinner. Why? The song book is really simple and we kind of suck at piano so it’s right up our alley.

Last Night after the Sing-a-long:

Rocky: “Damn! It’s late. We’ve got to get to bed.”
Sage (sarcasm): “There’s always time for Jesus.”
Indy (dead serious): “Chuck E. Cheese’s.”
Rocky (laughing): “No, Jesus.”
Indy (repeating after me): “No Cheese’s.”
Sage (really laughing): “No not Chuck E. Cheese’s, dude, Jesus.”
Indy (nodding in serious agreement): “Chuck E. Cheese’s”

Fact #4: We are now replacing all mentions of “Jesus” in the hymn book with “Chuck E. Cheese’s.” The rhythm gets a little dodgy at times, but the lyrics still make complete sense, especially if you’re 2 and love Chuck E. Cheese’s with all your heart.

I am never particularly interested in being a Buddhist until I am forced to process large-scale suffering. And, if I was a more aware and engaged person, I would obviously be in an endless loop of processing tragedy. But as it stands now, I tend to only really concern myself with the shocking and unexpected events that CNN covers for over 72 solid hours. So, this post is about the Virginia Tech shootings. It could as easily be about the Tsunami, Katrina, 9/11, today’s Iraq bombing . . .

I always initially relate with gratefulness. I think that’s OK. I mean how else can I relate except to put myself in the place of victims or victim’s loved ones, imagine their horror, feel the empathy, and then say, “Whew. I am thankful that was not me. I am grateful for what I have.”

Of course, it’s about more than that. It’s about death, but even more so it’s about an illusion of control over the uncompromising uncertainty (and in my opinion, meaninglessness) of life. We all know we’ll die, but we long for a sense of justice within the timing. I need desperately to believe in a “natural” and “likely” rhythm to aging and death in order to live under an illusion of permanency and meaning. How else would I get out of bed to start a day?

When news of giant ocean waves and bullets and ALS diagnoses rip that daily-illusion rug out from under me, I can only stop to reflect on the horror and feel helpless. That’s when I think being a practicing Buddhist would be worthwhile. Then I brush that thought off, have a glass of wine, blog, and go to bed so I can be well-rested to start another day.

Nothing like a big ole scab on your lip to make you totally unlovable. This is, unless you're 15. Because I found the cute little a-hole I was dating loveable enough to kiss. The one who swore "to GOD they're not contagious at this stage, and you look so hot and we really should make out or I'm going to DIE." Or something lame like that. I fell for it. And now I am hideous. Again.

That's the worst part. I used to get one, like, twice a year. Now that I'm on these immune-suppressant drugs for the RA/Lupusy thing, I get these little motherfuckers at least once a month. Sometimes I can stave them off with some prescription lip cream stuff, but there's always a few that can't be stopped. I hate it. I hate it enough to research lame-ass homeopathy recommendations online. So, if you see me soaking my face in a bowl of lemon-honey-spiked-fish oil or some such bullshit, you'll know why.

How wrong is it that I won’t shave my legs, use moisturizer, or apply makeup regularly for my husband, but I will do all that and more for my annual pap smear? I stopped just short of painting my toenails for a guy that sliced into my abdomen, put my ovaries and god knows what other innards up on my chest, and then reached into my uterus to remove a bloody baby. Do I honestly think he needs a freshly shaved WhooHa and colored toenails to scrape my cervix?

Why yes, yes I do.

And by THOSE days, I actually don’t mean a day that totally sucks. It’s just a day full of bizarre challenges and annoyances. Like, shit is going wrong and yet it’s all working out well enough. So, in essence, the day has left me feeling grateful I’m not dead on the side of the road or stricken with the plague, even though ultimately it was not very rosy.

What the hell does that mean, you ask? It goes like this:

CON: Realized 4 days of eating what I wanted on my trip and Easter (which, for the record, was a reasonable amount, I thought) led to a 3-4 lb weight gain according to my scale.
PRO: Pretty sure it is physically impossible to gain a pound a day.

CON: Unable to access “Full” airport long term parking lot this morning to pick up husband’s car.
PRO: It’s a small airport, so I walked through the lot no problem and halfway there a nice shuttle guy even offered me a ride that I didn’t bother to take because I could see the car by that point.

CON: On the way back from airport, my MIL’s car died with my 2-year-old in it.
PRO: It stalled right as they were getting off the freeway so they were able to coast to a convenient spot and not die.

CON: After car died, MIL called me 5 times and was unable to get a hold of me because I have been having trouble with multiple phones in my life.
PRO: She did finally get a hold of me by calling people at the office. Then I rescued them late but without incident and was later able to figure out a work-around to all my phone dilemmas.

CON: This all took a 2 hour chunk out of my busy workday morning.
PRO: I was still able to get all my shit done, got to spend an extra hour with my son, plus this detour allowed me to get to the Pharmacy.

CON: An asshole partner I hate called me yesterday semi-urgently and I didn’t get the message until today and couldn’t get a hold of him.
PRO: Asshole partner supposedly has a client for me. Didn’t want to talk to him anyway. Have enough of my own clients.

CON: Client sends us an unsigned check (who DOES that?!) So I have to leave work early to pick it up from the bank.
PRO: The bank just handed me the check and didn’t hassle me even a little. If you knew the righteous weenies at my bank, you’d be amazed by that.

Here's hoping tomorrow is less complicated.

I like being thin when I buy clothes and get dressed to go out somewhere nice, like once a month. For me, that is just about where thin stops being fun.

I miss eating. I miss it A LOT. Here is a small list of things that DO, in fact, taste better than thin feels.

Fresh Bread with Real Butter
Fettuccini Alfredo
Pepperoni Pizza w/ X-tra cheese
Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream
Cookie Dough before and after coming out of the oven
Movie Popcorn
Homemade Mac & Cheese
Hash Browns
Grilled Cheese
Birthday Cake w/ Buttercream Icing
Cheetos
Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups
Cheesecake
Ranch Dressing
Smothered Nachos
1/2 lb. Cheeseburgers
Fresh Cut French Fries

OK, Boo Hoo Hoo. So there must be a few good things a person can eat and still be thin, right?

Coffee
Splenda
Olean
Berries
Wine
Vodka
Artichokes
Mike & Ikes
Sugar Free, Fat Free Pudding
Sugar Free, Fat Free Cool Whip
Salsa
Couscous
Diet Dr. Pepper

Why this self pity post? It's EASTER, and I'm surrounded by cheesy potatoes and pie and chocolate. Oh yeah, I forgot to put solid chocolate bunnies on the list of food I can't eat.

Business relationships enable people from different social status to hang out, and I find the experience fascinating. So this afternoon, I was able to have cocktails and cheesecake with beautiful single people. How beautiful, you ask? Very. Like the guy was SO tall and magazine like and dates screws many women at once. The girl is tall and wears designer sunglasses (we tried some on before the cheesecake) and is hanging out tomorrow with the son of the owner of a Major League baseball team.

They are 9s in my opinion. I rarely run across 9s, let alone dine or drink with them, so I consider it an honor. An honor like being ushered into the cockpit of an airplane when you are 6 (I know they don't do this anymore) and shown 4 major instruments on the panel and given a plastic wing pin. Just a quick glimpse as if to say, "if you were an adult and went to flight school and scored a commercial airline job, you might be cool like me." But alas, there is no potential for me to grow 4 inches and become single again and wealthy or stylish enough to catch the eye of anyone associated with a real sports team.

So, I will be satisfied with my brief rendezvous with the pretty and hip. They should pass out pins so I could have a souvenir.

Here I am at the airport with my flight delayed at least 30 minutes. Not quite sure if it's Jesus' fault or the slight snow flurry outside. Either way, it's retarded and I'm trapped at the Southwest group terminal, which I have nicknamed "the greyhound station." So happy to have the Internet.

Off to St. Louis tomorrow. I look forward to the work. I like to pretend I'm important, give my presentation, brainstorm, talk strategy. But I would almost rather WALK than get on a plane. I know, I know. Today Sage tells me I have to take a random flight, daily for 22,000 years to officially hit my time to die statistically. He also tells me my carrier has never experienced a fatal crash. My response? So they're DUE? That's my anxiety in a nutshell.

I could drive the 11 hours, but I can't stand the thought of the anxiety winning like that. Besides, who has that kind of time for neurosis?

If I survive, I'll blog my tale of triumph against the anxiety, as opposed to the "odds." Odds are I'll want to barf during landing. This I know.

Ok, so here's a stab at a link building strategy for you. CEO makes a fool of himself with "Dance Dance Revolution." Sigh, I'll claim him. He's my husband and business partner.